Kitten
by Garrae
Summary: This is not a place where St Nicholas would distribute presents, though it might be where his demons let off steam. Danger abounds here: hot, heavy and welcome. This is a club where dreams can come true. An AU meeting. See CH1 A/N for Warnings Before Reading and note M-rating. Castle belongs to ABC/Marlowe.
1. Chapter 1

_This was sparked by **Kimmiesjoy**, who said she wanted to see a seduction using only words, and is both a fill for the Winter Kink meme 2014 (prompt at the bottom of this chapter) and an AU meeting. Be warned. __Also posted to AO3._

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><p><strong>1:Talking dirty<strong>

_**9 January, 2009**_

A dark-dressed man, big, broad, and giving off an intimidating aura of fury and frustration, is currently prowling a seedy side street for an unobtrusive, shadowy door to a dark, dangerous club. It's not a place he goes often, and it's not a place he'd like it to be known that he has ever entered, but he's been here just often enough that no-one will raise an eyebrow or officially recognise him. Then again, there are a lot of men within these walls who wouldn't want to be recognised. A lot of women, too.

This is a club where dreams can come true. If, that is, your dreams run to dominant men and submissive women. If your dreams are otherwise, then there are sister clubs to which the doormen will happily direct you.

No chance, in this club, of non-consensuality. The women who come here are looking for dominant males, but there are clear rules. Ladies' choice. If she turns you down, you don't argue, just look for another. Safe words mandatory, and the games agreed. Any breach, and you'll be searching for your balls in the gutter. The threat is not metaphorical, though it's a long time since it's needed to be executed. This club exists for the pleasure of its visitors, and only _pleasure_ is permitted.

Tonight, Richard Castle, celebrity superstar writer and city Casanova, is tired of willing, pliant, pretty women with no spark of originality; of busty blondes who have all the appeal of an inflatable; of women who pretend brainlessness because they think it's cute. He's tired of oily men who want to feed from his success, he's tired of writer's block and the pressure from his agent to come up with a new idea: the looming deadline of the publication of his final Storm novel moving ever closer to crushing him.

Tonight, he needs release, in a wholly primitive fashion. His life isn't under his control, right now. And so he's come here, to this dark entrance to a subterranean sea of dark desires, to find, for a night, a diversion which will provide him with the control that he needs.

He's dressed in black: denim, t-shirt, soft leather jacket, one pocket slightly proud with the single item he's brought. Black seemed appropriate. Shadowy clothing for a shadowy evening spent, he hopes, fulfilling his shadowy desires. Still, he wants anonymity. Silk masks are available, if desired, and tonight, as every other time, he does. The deep January night is not sufficient to protect him, should there ever be a leak, nor is the gloomy, reddish light of the downstairs room where people gather to consider each other's offerings. The dance floor is the only area lit, and tonight it's jumping. Christmas has clearly worn off. This is not a place where St Nicholas would distribute presents, though it might be where his demons let off steam. Nothing too explicit, in this room – there are rooms for that, elsewhere in this building – but the scent of arousal and sex is heavy in the air: the aura of anticipation almost suffocating. Danger abounds here: hot, heavy and welcome.

Castle leans on the bar with a whiskey and lets his eyes adjust to the gloom, roving over the contents of the dance floor and the ebb and flow of pairings. He isn't looking for the common submissive, who wants spanking or paddles and handcuffs as a compulsory minimum, and isn't interested in much else. He likes to exert his control through words, and then through denial or overload, depending on mood, with toys and handcuffs as an adjunct, and spanking a very optional extra. He needs, very badly, to prove to himself that he still has control of his words; and then that his words still have power over others.

Sometime around the second whiskey, he becomes aware that there is one woman, also masked, who has, in the last hour, rejected every man who's approached her. Many have. She's dark-haired, slim, tall even without the five-inch black stilettos. The buckled strap around each ankle hints at her kink. The dress she's wearing fits her figure to a T: plain, undecorated skirt cut diagonally from below her knee on the left to two inches below obscenity on the right; no back to speak of, only lacing. It's not clear if it's black or crimson until she spins under the light and it becomes obvious that it's dark blood-red silk. Around her neck is only a thin blood-red ribbon, to match the dress. Her hands and wrists are bare: no rings, no watch. In fact, no jewellery at all. She's minimalist, unadorned. He is instantly determined that she should be his, tonight. She's – different. Wilder. Taming this woman – though if she's here, in this club, then taming's her desire – is the only way in which he'll tame his demons.

He leaves the smoky whiskey on the bar and makes his way to the dance floor, slinking through the bodies in search of his prey, camouflaged in the round of men who are displaying too much skin in too tight shirts and pants. He doesn't need, or want, to do that. As he approaches, another potential partner is brushed off.

He takes her hand, gently, raises it to his lips and kisses the palm with a swift flick of tongue. This wild, fey dancer needs special handling, and though she'll be looking for his dominance he doesn't underestimate her dislike for arrogance. She's thrown back every man who's tried to start with physical control. She's almost on his eye level, and even with the mask he can see her eyes glinting hazel, sparked with flecks of green and gold. The ribbon – he'd thought – around her neck is in fact a thin crimson leather strip: a narrow collar, subtle enough that it would only be recognised by one who knows. He knows.

"Who do you want to be?" he asks, deep baritone rumble that offers her the option, rather than immediate demand. Demands can be made once they've agreed terms.

"I'm Kat," she husks: a sexy, breathy, silky voice that lays out a menu of sin and invites him to try it all.

"A cat, hmm?" He shifts closer. "I'm looking for a pet." His hand slips to her nape, running up into her hair and curling around the base of her skull, and when she curves very slightly against the pressure he's exerting he knows they've reached an accommodation of views. "What's your safe word, kitten?"

"Siamese," she purrs, and curves bonelessly against his body.

"How appropriate," he murmurs. "And you're already wearing a collar. I wouldn't want my pet to get lost, though. I think we'd better add a leash." He sees heat flare in her eyes. "Like that thought, kitten?" His hand drops to her right thigh, where the dress exposes it, and sketches a slow, sensual pattern, shifts away. She mews, disappointedly, as he takes his hand away to reach into his pocket; but then her eyes flare again when he draws out a thin black leather lead. "I think you'll like this." He clips it on, and wraps the leather round his hand.

She'd sensed him slinking up close, had seen him leaning on the bar, sipping whiskey and exuding a particular form of dominance that she'd not found in anyone else tonight. Tonight, she's looking for oblivion: the chance to pretend she's got no burdens or responsibilities and to do as she pleases. It's why she's come here. A safe haven: anonymity behind her mask, and oblivion. Tonight, she's looking for a man who'll take total control, give the orders and expect her only to obey. It's her release from her demons, on this night of all nights, after the turning of the year. She simply wants to submit, to the right man, who'll make her forget in the scalding burn of desire and heat and the physical. Then she can be her public alpha persona again. This masked man twitches her instincts and the muscles deep within her in a way that no-one else in the club has done.

Dominant, but not unpleasantly arrogant. He's opened his account on the credit side, by asking how she wants to be known, and taking only her hand, and kissing it. And so she gives him a name that's not wholly a lie, and starts the game. When his deep voice tells her he's looking for a pet, lust spreads over her, dark molasses seduction pouring over her and pooling hotly in her mouth and between her legs, and she arches into his hard hand to receive the fingertip stroke at the base of her neck that a real kitten might receive. When he clips on the leash she's already soaked, hot and ready, the lust in his deep blue eyes equalled in her own.

"Now," Castle purrs darkly. "We both know the game. I give the orders, you obey, or safe-word out. If you use your safe-word, we stop that." She nods. "So let's begin, kitten." He leads her by the leash to a secluded corner and a soft couch.

"Pets need training," he points out, "so they know how to behave for their owners. So that's what I'm going to do. House train you, to be my pet." She squirms, hot and wet and already desperately aroused.

"While we're in this room, you don't make a sound, unless I say you may." He smiles slowly. "There'll be time for noise later, when we're alone." She wriggles sensually as his fingers dance over the bare skin of her leg, high on her thigh. "You don't come until I tell you that you may. You don't touch yourself anywhere on your body, unless I tell you to. I'll be in control of your actions and reactions, not you. The only control you have is to make sure you don't come without permission. Everything else is mine."

His fingers move a little inward, a little higher. His other hand, leash still wrapped around it, curves back around her neck, strong fingers holding her head in one position. He takes her mouth roughly, and hears her breath catch with satisfaction, lifting his head to watch her eyes turn cloudy and pupils dilate. When his hard fingertips find the soaked satin of her panties, he rubs over the fabric and sees her bite down on her lip so that she doesn't let a noise escape. His fingers slide the fabric over his prey, his prize, not touching her skin at all, and she squirms against him, so completely turned on by his words that his actions seem to be wholly secondary.

"You're all wet, kitten. Soaking. You've made a mess of your panties already, and we've hardly started." She only just doesn't whimper, in case he stops. His words are wickedly erotic. "You'll need to go to the restroom, take them off, and come back. I'll take care of them. You won't be needing them. While you're with me, you won't wear them. Not ever." He draws a line through the centre of the offending item, and she gasps, but manages – just – not to moan, or whimper, or plead. At least the short walk will let her come off the edge. When she tries to stand, to obey him, though, she finds that he still has the leash firmly in his grasp. She hasn't been given permission to speak, so instead she touches his hand, and the leash.

"You may speak."

Her voice is low and desperate, full of desire and the building need to control her body.

"Please will you let go of the lead so I can go to the restroom?" Her owner – for this one night – smirks.

"Let you off the leash? But you're not even partly trained yet. You might get lost, or someone might run off with you. I'll walk you there." He stands, and pulls her up into him, letting her feel his arousal pressed hard between her legs. She rolls against him, and for a brief moment he allows her to have the hot pressure where she wants it, before he leads her to the restroom. She finds the looks of others, as they spot the thin leather joining them, to be almost as arousing as the leash itself, the statement of ownership and control that it makes showing her the purpose that she requires on this night.

She's swift to obey his order and return, needing to be connected again by that thin line of leather, to hear the words and tone that tell her that on this life-changing date someone will tell her what to do, how to behave, who to be. Someone's pet, owned and cosseted and – she can pretend – loved. It's what she needs, tonight.

Knowing that as she's led back to the quiet corner, she's naked beneath the provocative dress, open should his searching fingers choose to touch, sends her higher, hotter, more liquid. He sits, but stops her.

"Stand there, kitten. Feet apart." She complies. Somehow, she feels exposed, though nothing is exposed. He runs a hot, possessive gaze slowly up and down her. "Now. Come forward." He tugs gently at her leash. She realises that although the club is full, this corner is almost as private as the room that – she is already sure – they will be using later. She slinks forward, as flexible as the cat he's named her, following the shortening leash till she's inches from his chest and her open stance is either side of his knees.

"That's right. Legs open. Stand straight. Now, remember the rules. No noise, no touching, no coming." His voice is velvet, over steel. Its furry texture tickles down her spine and leaves a trail of sparks behind it. There's a tiny pause, while tension builds. She can't press her thighs together. She's not allowed to touch herself anywhere. Her hands are balled into fists, hanging at her sides. She licks dry lips, bites down. Her breathing is already ragged, her chest jerking. She knows her nipples are hard and visible through the thin silk of her dress. Anticipation is winding tightly through her.

"You're mine. My pet. My possession. Mine to do with as I please." She locks her knees, as muscles clench around nothing. "I could walk you around, on the leash, to show everyone that I own you. Couldn't I?" She nods. "You're soaked under that dress. Naked and hot and wet, and if I slipped a finger into you you'd be tight around it. Wouldn't you?" She nods again. "You'll be my obedient little kitten, there for me to play with and pet. Won't you?" Another nod. She's completely seduced, hypnotised by the pooling, thick desire in every word, the filthy fantasy that he's weaving about them. "You'll know, all the time, that you're naked below whatever you're wearing, open to me whenever I choose to touch you. I'll decide whether to play with you or not, and you'll be wet and hot and open all the time in case I do." Her knees wobble. "Stand, kitten. I didn't tell you that you could sit." Darkness swirls in his voice. "You won't sit. You'll kneel, in front of me, clothed or naked as I tell you."

The picture is crystal-clear before her. She's impossibly wet, barely keeping her knees straight, the flutters of pre-orgasm constant between her legs, the soft folds there liquid and heat roiling off her. Her teeth clenched in her lip are the only thing stopping her from whimpering mindlessly, mewing and begging him to give her release. She's desperately trying to think of anything to bring herself back from the edge over which his words are relentlessly driving her. She knows this game. She can't win, because he's going to force her to orgasm without his permission, and then he'll punish her for it. His words are too evocative, and his voice goes straight to her core.

"Do you like to kneel, kitten? Do you like to have that soft, wet mouth filled?" She barely manages to nod. "Good," he drawls, and in the dim light of the corner she sees his eyes wholly black and hot through the slits of the mask. "Just imagine yourself, naked, kneeling, in front of me, taking me in." She barely restrains a moan. He pauses for a moment. "No noise, kitten. Disobedience will be punished." She wobbles again.

"I haven't told you how you'll be punished for disobedience, have I?" She shakes her head frantically. Something about the treacle-softness of his tones tell her that it won't be what she was expecting. "Denial of treats is always a good training method." It takes a moment for that to register. "Instead of taking me in, a gag, perhaps. Or having to wait longer for permission to come. Or wearing an appropriate training aid, to help you practice self-control." She's almost out of her mind with desire and desperation. "So you'll be obedient, won't you?" She nods as frantically as she had shaken her head. He hasn't laid a finger on her since she took her panties off for him and he tugged her forward by the leash and yet one touch would send her shattering. Her muscles are desperate for one thick finger to slide into her, give her something to clench and squeeze around.

"That's a good kitten." He leans back on the couch, and smiles lazily, completely in control, wholly predatory.

"When I don't want you naked, I'll decide how I dress you. Do you like to play dress-up?" She nods, again. "I like to play dress-up, with my possessions." He looks her slowly up and down, and she squirms and wriggles. "I've already said, no panties. Heels, like the ones you're wearing. Basques, I think, for you, and stockings. If I take you out for a walk, a dress, that I'll choose. Never pants. I want you to be aware that you're not wearing panties every minute you're with me, no matter where we are. I want you to know that no matter what, I can reach you and touch you and make you scream for me. I want you to know that you're permanently naked and wet and mine. Imagine, kitten, being taken for a walk, collar and leash on, heels and a pretty dress covering a tight-laced basque and stockings, no panties, and soaking wet because you won't ever know if I'll touch you or talk to you like this or just leave you to wonder and wait. It'll be up to me."

She's shaking with the effort of staying upright. The evening is barely begun, she knows. It's only for an evening, but it's going to be a hell of a night.

"Of course, if you've been disobedient, I might use the walk as a punishment. How long can you hold on to your self-control, if I'm in control of you? Imagine, kitten, that you're" – he pauses significantly – "wearing a toy. For as long as I decide you deserve to. It adds a whole new level to your uncertainty about what I might do, doesn't it?" She can't help it. His words and his voice and his tone and calm assumption of total control plays into all of her filthiest, unspoken fantasies. "By the time I took you home you'd be desperate, wouldn't you? You'd be begging me for relief. But disobedience has to be punished, and pets have to be trained. Just like now."

He runs a slow, heated look over her. "If I touch you now, you'll explode. But I don't even have to touch you, kitten. Here you are, panties off, legs apart, mouth wet, hot and soaked and open to me and right on the edge of coming just like you have been since I put my leash on your collar." The reminder of her total surrender is the last straw, and the flutters turn to full-on climax. He catches her as her knees give and the orgasm shatters her.

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><p><em>Happy New Year. The prompt was simply "Castle dominates a submissive Beckett". Second chapter tomorrow.<em>

_I'm always happy to know what you think. All logged in reviews are answered._


	2. Chapter 2

_Warnings repeated: this is a **Kink meme** fill._

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><p><strong>2: Tainted love<strong>

"You were disobedient, kitten." It's what she hears as she resurfaces. She's cradled into him, being stroked and petted as if she truly were the pet he's named her for the evening. "I didn't tell you that you could come, did I?" She drags back the other rule, and shakes her head, looks up through her lashes, doe-eyed and innocent, wholly provocative.

"So what shall I do with you?" His fingers trace over her cheek, and knot in her hair to hold her mouth for his searching, probing, possessive kiss. He takes his time, his other hand skimming her hip, the leash falling between her breasts and across her legs. "You're my pet. I can't have you behaving like that in public." His hand draws a very definite pattern at the absolute limit of discretion, and then flickers, lightning-fast, through her soaked flesh. She squirms under his fingers, instantly aroused again, and feels him hard against her.

Castle isn't done with this kitten-Kat by any means. She's exactly what he needs, totally receptive and under the spell of his words: it's been a while since he's seen a woman fall apart like that because he only talked to her. Then again, he doesn't usually want to talk, because all his words spill on to the page. For the first time in months he believes that he'll write again. In the meantime, he's going to play this game of dominance and submission for the rest of the evening, and it's going to be one hell of a night.

He takes hold of the leash and runs the soft end of the leather over the neckline of her dress. "Stand up, kitten." She complies, but she's not entirely steady on her needle thin stilettos. He smiles sharply, darkly, to see it. Something about having this woman – he doesn't even know what she looks like, but he can tell enough that she's likely pretty, and her body is scorchingly hot – on the end of his leash is frighteningly, deeply, darkly erotic. "Time to take this elsewhere."

He leads her through the club to the private rooms, equipped with everything that could be required, soundproof and – in this case – unobserved. (You can, of course, have observation too, if you want it. Castle doesn't.)

"We're alone now, so you may speak, or make noise. All other rules still apply." He loops the end of the leash over a hook, leaving her only a tiny amount of play in the strap, stands back and lets his blazing look flood over her. "You were disobedient, weren't you?"

"Yes," she falters. He pins her with his hard look, and raises an eyebrow. "Sir?"

"That's better, kitten. A pet should respect her owner. " He takes a step forward, and slides his finger where he'd stroked the leash across her neckline. His voice is softly dangerous, insinuating and sinful. He watches her bite her lip, slip the tip of her tongue over it to soothe it. He places the same finger on her red mouth. "Open. Suck." She complies, whimpers softly when he withdraws the digit, mewls when he draws it over the line of her dress, high on her right leg, moans when he slips it over the satin-soft skin of her inner thigh.

"Please…" she whispers.

"No." And the touch is withdrawn. She tries to arch after it, but the shortened leash won't allow it. "You disobeyed," he notes again. "You came without my permission, didn't you?"

"Yes…Sir."

"You couldn't control yourself, could you?"

"No, sir."

"You need more training, don't you?"

"Yes, sir." She's already mewing again. His simple words are winding her up and up, from the promise in their delivery, the expression on his face and the soft command in his voice.

He prowls back to her, looming, broad and dangerous, loosens the leash slightly and turns her to face the wall. His firm hands skate over her back; mould the curve of her rear; glide back up to unclip the hook at the top of her dress; loosen the laces. The silk swishes to the floor.

"Turn around." There's just enough slack on the leash to do so. She stands almost naked in front of him, nipples proud, a sheen of sweat across her collarbones, a slick glistening faintly visible at the juncture of her thighs, blazing desire in her eyes beneath the silk mask. "Pretty," he drawls. In truth, she's stunning. "My pretty little kitten." He notices the flex of muscle in her thighs. "Feet apart." He steps away, sits in an old-fashioned leather armchair, waiting for a moment, simply looking, and appreciating. "You don't know what I might do now. There you are, naked, pinned like a portrait on the wall, completely at my disposal. You're desperate for me to touch you, aren't you?" She nods. "Words, kitten."

"Yes, sir."

"Ask nicely."

"Please touch me, sir." She's so deeply into this game: more than ever before. She'd not have believed that words and tiny, unfulfilling touches could promise so much. "Please," she pleads.

"If I were to touch you, though, you'd disobey again," he says, reasonably. "If I stroked your breasts, rolled your nipples, you'd come in an instant." She shifts restlessly, constrained by the limits of the leash, feeling the restriction. Her hands flex at her sides. "Uh-uh. No touching." Suddenly he's by her, unhooking the leash. "I think you need help not touching. Kneel." She can't suppress the moan. She can see his outline bulging in his denims. "Is it like you imagined, kitten? Kneeling naked at my feet, wholly obedient? Tell me what you want to do."

"I want…I want…"

"If you don't tell me, you don't get anything." No-one's ever made her openly complicit in satisfying her own need – on this one night, never any other time – for another's control. No-one's ever used words to make her come, and then made her use words to submit to their desire. Words are not her specialty. But being forced to articulate her own submission is terrifyingly, darkly, shamingly erotic: the shame only increasing her heat and arousal.

"I want to taste you." He waits, doing nothing. "I want to take you out of your pants and fill my mouth with you." He still says nothing. "Please, I want you."

"Nearly right. You have to ask nicely. It's not about what you want, is it? It's about what I choose you to have. You have to ask."

"Please may I taste you?" He smiles, lazily, returns to the armchair, tugging on the leash so that she follows, sits down. She kneels by him.

"You don't deserve to," he says conversationally. "You don't deserve a treat." She whimpers, disappointed. "But we've only begun your training" – she shudders as the word hits straight between her legs – "and a little indulgence now will make you more receptive later." His lazy smile washes over her, a little brighter. "Go ahead, kitten."

She's careful, delicate, as she opens his pants, strokes him and releases him. She's sure she's pleasing him, but then…

"Stop," he orders. She looks up from him. "You were disobedient earlier. I don't think you can be trusted to obey without some assistance. You were touching yourself, weren't you?"

"No," she denies. "No, I wasn't." He takes her hands and lifts them to his face, examines them.

"Sit up. Hands behind your back." She knows what will come. She straightens. He dangles the cuffs in front of her face. Soft leather, a short chain between them. She's floodingly wet at the sight. "We'll just make sure of that." He traps her wrists within the restraints, and stops her again when she tries to lean forward. "No. Not yet." His voice drops to a dark intimacy, and she knows he's going to bind her further, not with chains but with words.

"This is one way I like to keep my pet, when I'm at home. Naked and wet and kneeling. This time, it's only handcuffs, and the leash. Sometimes, it'll be more formal. A chain from your collar – you'll always have a collar: one that no-one but us will know about when we go out; one that makes your status clear at home; but a pet always has to have a collar on, doesn't she?"

"Yes," she breathes. His silence expects more. "I'd always wear a collar."

"A chain from your collar," he repeats, "down to the wrist cuffs, linked to them, looped through between your legs, running up between your breasts, back to the collar again, just tight enough that you always know it's there, pressing very gently so that you always want more, even if you're perfectly still, rubbing if your hands move at all." She squirms, frantically, feeling the chain that isn't there rubbing on her. "If you've been disobedient, I might use it to ensure that your punishment can't be avoided." She takes the implication without effort, and squirms again, struggling desperately not to fall over the edge. How does this stranger know her deepest, darkest, best-hidden dreams? She moans. "If you've been especially naughty, the wrist cuffs would be linked to your ankle cuffs. You'd have to kneel, wrists and ankles tethered, a toy tormenting you, cuffed and chained and naked and soaked and screaming and desperate."

"Please don't, please stop, please I can't," she begs. Her imagination is too vivid, and she's lost in the imaginary sensations.

"I'd be in charge. Your body, totally under my control, keeping you right there on the edge, dropping you back, only to push you higher. All night, kitten. All mine, all night, all day, or longer. Keeping you on the edge for days, perhaps."

But it's only this one night. Tomorrow, she'll be herself again, and this will only have been a dream. He's stopped talking. She drops back, just slightly. She's hopelessly wet, again, her inner muscles fluttering around nothing. He pulls the leash, gently – for a wholly dominant man, he hasn't used any physical strength to control her, only her susceptibility to those dark, erotic, wicked words and wholly inadequate touches, and her own desire to be owned.

"Good," he congratulates. "That time, you managed to control yourself. You may have your treat." He pulls again, and she leans forward and opens her lips over him to taste him, taking him in, pleasing herself while pleasuring him. She licks and flicks and glides over him, mimicking the motion of her real desire, teasing and tantalising and tasting and taking him deeper until the hot wash of his release fills her mouth as his hands grip in her hair, the leash fallen unnoticed, and she's fractions from the edge again, but he hasn't said she may and she can't do anything about it for herself.

He leans forward and releases one wrist. She lets him go, reluctantly, tucks him away at his gesture, stays obediently kneeling. "There. You're learning control fast, kitten. You'll be a perfect pet." He brings her to standing, and picks up the end of the leash again, twirls it meditatively. She's a miracle: the way she reacts to only the words, the spell that the words – that _he_ – weaves. It's – _she's_ – exactly what he needs. He draws the flexible leather over the centre of her cleavage. She's whimpering, again, still close, still shivering on the edge just because of him, his control over her imagination. Time for another round, and more. The night is not yet over.

He leads her to the bed. "Lie down on your front." He knows what she's thinking. It's obvious, isn't it, what comes next? "Arms above your head." He slips the chain of the cuffs over the hook and re-pinions her wrists, ensures that the pillow is comfortably below her cheek, the leash lying over her back and dropping to one side. He moves down, spreads her legs, attaches each ankle by a short cuff to the waiting rings. He stands at the end of the bed and admires the picture he's made: his pet, the leash against her reminding her to whom she belongs, tonight; soft-skinned, naked to his gaze, swollen and wet and open for him, ready for anything he chooses to do with her. He knows what she expects, the tiny tensions in her gluteal muscles, a hint of fright joining the lust in her eyes, but she's not safe-worded out, so it wouldn't be a showstopper.

"You came without permission. I let you have a treat, but now it's time to pay for your disobedience." She writhes, and he slides a pillow under her stomach so that she can't rub against the sheets. She mewls, pleadingly, trying to curve into his hands, but there's no give in her bonds. He returns to standing at the foot of the bed.

"You're completely at my mercy. You can't move, you can't help yourself, all you can do is wait. I can do anything I please." His tone turns darker. "Your pretty ass is right there, soft pale skin, completely unmarked." She quivers. "It's very tempting." He sits on the bed by her thigh, looking at her face. She's wholly focused on his words. "The colour would bleed across it, following the heat." He lays his palm on the curve, and pauses.

"You think you know what your punishment is. You're imagining it, the slap and the sting and the fire. But that's too easy. I told you earlier, denial of treats. You need to be taught to control yourself. So I'm going to teach you. _My_ pet needs to be house-trained." He strokes over her taut ass. "I'll tell you when you can come." His hand moves up and down, curve of her back to top of her thigh, stroking softly. "Imagine, pet. You've been disobedient, and you know it. And now you're waiting to find out how you'll be punished. You know that I will. You're wet just thinking about it, because you know that you'll enjoy it, even while you're begging me to stop. This time, you're going to be spread open. Held apart, so that I can see every small reaction." She's making little formless noises, but he doesn't stop or change the smooth flow of hand or word.

"I might touch you, like this." The smooth stroke slips down between her legs, so lightly she barely feels it before it's gone. She can't arch into it, though the heat it leaves behind floods her. "Or like this," and it takes the opposite path. Then it's gone, and the smooth strokes return. "I might stop altogether, and leave you alone to contemplate the results of disobedience, not knowing when I'd return. Anticipation is a very powerful force, kitten." He can feel the shivers running through her. "Or I might do this." He slips a finger into her and she cries out. "Remember, you're not allowed to come." He withdraws it. She's panting, flushed, trying to move.

She knows the game, she knows she needs to keep her head, but the seduction of his touch after the seduction of his words is skimming away the layers of her control. His finger enters her again, then another joins it, pressing and curling until she's so close and begging and she needs it so badly but it's gone. He's playing her body, hands and mouth and tongue, and there's nothing she can do but react to whatever he does, until she's sweat-soaked and pleading with him, hot and wet and desperate, wholly and completely his. She'll admit anything, submit to everything, do whatever he commands: let him own her and be his pet just so long as this night lasts.

He's talking again.

"I could stop now. Untie you and put your dress back on and take you back out on the leash: make you wait and wonder. Couldn't I?" The thought that he might stop makes her whine, and he's taken her up to the edge and stopped so many times and she can't stand it anymore.

"Please don't. Please."

"Do you think you've learned your lesson, kitten?"

"Yes. _Please_, no more. I'll be good. _Please_."

"Please what? Tell me what you want."

"I want to come. Please, I want to come."

"You want? Who decides what you get?"

"You do." He nods, smiling, and traces fingers over her some more, till she's moaning again.

"That's right, I do. You like it like that, don't you? You like that I'll decide."

"Yes. Please?" His fingers slide and twist and play, and she's wordless again, desperate, heading full speed for the edge.

"Tell me what you are."

"Yours – _ohhh please_ – your pet."

"What does that mean?"

"You decide. Only you – _please I can't please not more_." She trembles right on the edge before he stops.

"That's right. My kitten, properly trained. My pet, obedient and collared, on my leash." He undoes her, turns her on to her back for the first time, re-fastens her hands, but not her ankles. "Wherever we are, you'll be mine." He's finally naked himself, rolls on a condom, settles in the vee of her legs, placed perfectly. He leans over her on his elbows. "What do you want, kitten?"

"You. I just want you, please, now," she pleads, needing release, desperate for the size and bulk of his body within her, the final possession to complete her surrender, give her everything she needs on this one night.

He kisses her hard, rough, hands holding her face for his invasion, feeling her move and writhe against him, swallowing the moans, the pleas, sliding tantalisingly against her slick heat.

"Please," she cries, "please, I need you in me, please let me come."

"Now, come for me, now!" and he thrusts home and she's shattered before he's moved again, totally his, her body obedient to his control, everything he needed and wanted as he comes himself. He's enough consciousness left to undo the cuffs, to free her to curl into his body and be held close, petted and cossetted and made very, very happy.

He brings her to screaming, desperately begging for his body within her, twice more before exhaustion overcomes them, talks her up and up and only allows her permission to come at the last possible moment, describes how he'll keep her, makes her describe how she'd feel as he owns her, how she is feeling, what she wants. She needs to be complicit, accomplice in her own surrender: and she is, wholly complicit, drowning in his words.

When he wakes she's already left, the panties gone from his pocket, the leash lying untethered across the pillow. It was a one-time thing, a dream, a fantasy. She could have been a faery, or a phantom, for all the trace that's left. Anonymity is always guaranteed. He's never regretted it, before.

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><p>Three months later, he's hauled out his own party by the most alpha woman he's ever encountered in his life, thrown into an interrogation room and cross-questioned aggressively. Ms Angry-Dominant-Cop here has clearly never made a concession to anything in her whole entire existence. She's scorchingly hot, though. He examines her face – and abruptly realises that he recognises those eyes. He doesn't say a word about it. Not until the case is all over and she's about to leave, rejecting his dinner invitation and turning away from his light flirtation.<p>

"You have no idea," she smirks, and starts to turn away.

"Oh, I think I do," he murmurs. The speed of her spin back gives him whiplash. "Kitten."

_**Fin.**_

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><p><em>Thank you all for the reviews, follows and favourites. To all guestunlogged in reviewers, thank you all, especially, because I can't thank you individually._


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